


party pieces

by familiar



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Impact Play, M/M, bored kids just trying to feel okay, or feel at all rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7613656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/familiar/pseuds/familiar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the early 2008 so-bad-it's-good sex idea vault: "It’s just him and Kent and the really stupid idea that was beating his ass raw with a hockey stick." Gotta hit it with something, you know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	party pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kihv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihv/gifts).



> You guys, I think ... I think I may need a sock for my sock.
> 
> Thanks to kihv for impressing upon me the value of writing this crack idea immediately, and also for a speedy beta. Kisses.

“Do you think if I hit it hard enough it’ll break up and there’ll be prizes inside?” Kent asks. He’s standing over Jack with a hockey stick in one hand, his other curled on his hip. Jack rolls over to peek, and Kent uses the stick to nudge him back onto his stomach. “Stay down,” Kent reminds him. “No looking unless I say so.”

“If my ass is a piñata,” Jack says, “shouldn’t you be blindfolded?”

“No! I want to see this thing get all pink.” Kent presses against Jack’s cheeks with the flat part of the stick. “I’m gonna get this thing open,” he says. “I want the candy.”

For some reason that’s unbelievably hot—like, literally! Jack cannot believe. He buries his head in a pillow, stopping short of biting it. Kent is wedging the stick into the split of his ass, humming something, some pop song that Jack wouldn’t know or whatever. This is crazy. It’s crazy, and it’s _so hot_ , the smooth wood of the hockey stick rubbing against his hole.

“You like that?” Kent asks. “I can’t see your dick, so you gotta tell me if you like it.”

“Mmmf.” Kent can’t see but Jack can feel—his dick is so full it’s pulsing, wet at the tip against his stomach. It gets in the prickly baby hairs under his navel. This whole scene is a mess.

“Zimms,” Kent barks, pushing his butt open, lifting and releasing each side of Jack’s ass so he can feel the cold in Kent’s room against his dry hole. Kent’s not going to stick the thing _inside_ , right? God, that would just—he wouldn’t, would he? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “Zimms,” Kent asks louder. “You hard?”

“Ouais,” Jack moans. He can’t even say yes. It’s too dirty.

“Oh, you got the French out.” There’s a smile in Kent’s voice. “You ready?”

“Kenny,” Jack breathes. He feels the slap of hard wood against his ass—not full-force, just enough for Jack to push into his own dick and drool a little into the pillow.

“Good.” Kent laughs. “Good, oh my god, you shoulda seen the way it bounced off of this thing.” He’s back to just tapping Jack’s ass with the stick. Back to rubbing Jack’s hole. “Never in my life have I seen such a huge ass.” It’s not like Kent hasn’t said that before. A lot of people in hockey have big asses, though, and Jack thinks that maybe he’s just being flattered. They tried to go to a bar when they were in New York over New Year’s, ostensibly visiting Kent’s family but actually—hiding? Trying on a life as something other than junior hockey superstars. They were too young, forgot it wasn’t backwater Canada. Still, while Kent argued with the bouncer, Jack noticed the looks guys gave him, downward and sideways with focus. It’s so big, and sometimes he’s so grateful—he might otherwise have problems getting someone to top him. Then again, isn’t it just a giveaway? He can’t help but worry that everyone knows.

“Ready for more?” Kent asks. “You’re kinda quiet. You okay?”

“More,” Jack says. He feels the stick against his ass again—harder. Just a little. Kent gives him a rest and lays it down again—and again. He keeps pausing between blows. Jack’s ass is stinging, and Kent runs his fingers over it. He blows on it.

“Jack,” he says, so softly. “Baby, you’re so good.”

Jack feels like he’s dreaming.

“More?” Kent asks.

“Yeah.”

“How much more do you want?”

“A lot,” Jack says. “ _Harder_.”

Kent’s breath catches. He’s a kid, like Jack, actually a month older, but they’re both 17.  Why shouldn’t Kent have doubts? But it punctures Jack’s feelings of security, and he squirms, suddenly feeling like maybe neither of them is in control, and that’s the worst, so god help them. But then Kent breathes easily, and he says, “All right, babe. All right.” And he brings the flat of the hockey stick against Jack’s skin again and again, counting under his breath, while sensations blossom, and Jack’s mind goes blank.

There’s only pain when Kent pauses, and the feeling brings Jack pleasure. Groaning, Jack sinks his hips into the mattress, his body trembling, warmth spreading across his belly as something in him uncoils. He humps the bed in little thrusts, his behind really smarting now. It feels—that’s just it, _it feels_. Jack never feels pain like this, but he also never feels so alive. He never feels pleasure like this, either. For the first time in forever, his mind is blank. It's liberating.

A hand slips under him. “Jeez,” says Kent. “Jeez, Jack, you really— _fuck_.”

Jack’s cock is well-spent, and he writhes as Kent squeezes him. It’s a new pain as Kent’s hand slides over the sensitive head. He gets his other hand on Jack’s ass, and that’s even more pain, and there are tears in Jack’s eyes, and he’s just—he’s so happy.

“Well, I guess you broke open,” Kent says. “Got this like—bubblegum everywhere. I hope the kids get all of this picked up. Don’t want to leave any in the grass.”

“Please,” Jack begs.

“You want me to clean you up?” Kent asks. “You’re kind of a mess here.”

“Please fuck me.”

Kent kisses his neck, then down his back. “Okay,” he says, between kisses. “Okay.” He goes lower and lower, until his lips are on the burning, throbbing skin of Jack’s ass. “Feels so hot,” Kent says, against it. “All this ass lit up like a firework.” He squeezes it, and Jack lets out a little cry. It feels like he's bleeding a little.

“Yeah, I know, you already exploded. Fuck, I gotta do this. Let me—” He gets up—to grab some lube, Jack thinks. _Hopes_.

It doesn’t last long, ultimately—Kent is close as soon as he’s fully inside and says so. “Good,” he pants. “You’re good, Zimms, you’re so good.”

Jack doesn’t just want to be good. He wants to be _the best_. Fuck, it’s like—having it this way is basically better than Jack deserves. He’s been thinking about this for days, for weeks: a quiet afternoon without practice, no dumb billeteers around, no major homework assignments due this week. It’s just him and Kent and the really stupid idea that was beating his ass raw with a hockey stick, because now he’s going to have to skate with this, and if he gets checked and winds up with his rear planted into the ice or something—ouch.

But, whatever, that’s later. Right now it’s just—pure bliss. Kent’s mumbling shit about bubblegum and birthday parties. “I’m gonna—” That’s all he chokes out, and then he does.

Clean-up is rough, but Kent is dabbing away the semen before he gets to the blood. The pain part of this is over, and Jack is relieved that no jizz gets into his cuts. “Pretty minor,” Kent says, but it’s crazy that the skin broke. Jack is face-down for this, mostly, but at one point his eyes meet Kent’s, and he sees something in there: guilt, maybe? But then Kent blushes, shakes his head, and looks away, muttering, “So good.” He balls up the wet paper towel; it’s pinkish, soggy. Regarding it, Kent shrugs. “I guess it kind of looks like bubblegum.” He tosses it into the trash and plasters bandages on Jack’s ass. They play hockey, so it’s not like Jack hasn’t seen Kent whip out his Band-Aids before. They’re Hello Kitty, pink and stupid. Apparently they sell them at the Uniprix. It’s embarrassing, but at least no one’s going to see them. Kent hums to himself while he applies them.

Jack is trying to keep his mind blank when Kent’s done and gets in bed with him. They didn’t talk about this part, the after part. The part where Jack feels raw and vanquished, half-drugged (he hasn’t even taken any pills since this morning—unusual), and half-excited. It’s the way he feels after a really good workout, or an intense shoot-out: okay, now what? They had no plan, and that is terrifying.

But Kent knows how he gets. He puts his arms around Jack’s shoulders. He asks Jack if he wants a drink. He wants a stiff one, but he’s going to be smart about this and asks for some orange juice. Kent laughs and says, “Sure, Zimms,” and fetches a cup of that for Jack and some water for himself.

Jack is shaking as he drinks his juice, wondering what’s going to happen now.

“Hey,” Kent says. He’s grinning. He’s always grinning. Kent actually grins through losses when he’s doing press, which is something Jack can’t manage. Kent’s charming then, and he’s charming now, and he charms Jack when he says, “Look at you. You’re like—”

Jack is waiting and waiting for it, but Kent Parson is at a loss for words. Jack rests his head on Kent’s shoulder and whispers, “Kenny,” in a way that he hopes matches how he feels about him right now: mystifying, bracing, unknown.

“You’re so good, Zimms,” Kent repeats. “Jack. You’re the best.”

“The best,” Jack echoes.

“We’re both the best. I mean, together, you know. You got that ass and like, I’m pretty decent at like, hockey. I guess.”

“Okay,” Jack agrees.

They stretch out, pretty tired. Kent is shorter, and he curls around Jack from behind, careful not to press too hard into his sore ass.

Jack is a little taller, and he kicks his legs out as far as they go. At the bottom of the bed, they brush something—a hockey stick. Jack grins, his flesh smarting and his head clear.

This is good. It’s not the best, but it’s good, and that’s enough for Jack, finally. For right now.


End file.
